


And We'll Play G.I. Blood

by ChemFishee



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: 2010 Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChemFishee/pseuds/ChemFishee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate thought he stopped doing stupid shit like this spring semester of his junior year. Turns out he was wrong. He’s been wrong a lot lately.<br/>(March 2010)</p>
            </blockquote>





	And We'll Play G.I. Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The National's "Gospel."  
> (Comment!Fic originally posted [here](http://chemfishee.livejournal.com/168951.html?thread=1828599#t1828599).)

They don’t meet at Pendleton. _Except they do._  
It’s not a bar, dive or otherwise. _Except it is._  
There aren’t shots of good tequila and chasers of cheap domestic and quarters sliding into the jukebox in the corner. _Except there are._

  
-

  
Recon operates under different rules. Well, not officially but all the same. The past five months have only confirmed and reinforced what it took Nate two weeks in May to learn: he’s not in infantry any more.  
  
It’s a Friday in September – late for some, early for most. The three of them pour into a booth close to the bar and music and far enough away from the head. There’s been enough shit for the day after the epically disastrous briefing on Iraq saved only by the force of Mattis.  
  
Mike tucks in beside Brad and orders the first round, tequila to start. It could be a long night.

  
-

  
They don’t share their personal histories. Mike and Brad know a lot of the same people. Everyone has a reputation.  
  
Nate listens while they talk about someone named Horsehead.  
  
Iceman. Manimal. Pappy. Poke. Sir. Everyone has a name, earned or chosen.  
  
Nate tongues the foam from his lip as Mike starts an anecdote about Mogadishu. Brad nods at all the right places. His fingers shred a paper coaster advertising a special on Foster’s into a refugee tent city. The Talking Heads drown out whatever asides he adds to Mike’s story.  
  
Nate shouldn’t have come.

  
-

  
The third time his phone lights up with Cara’s number, Mike settles his tab and makes his excuses.  
  
Brad runs a possessive hand over the handle on the pitcher of beer. He waits.  
  
Nate flags the beleagured waitress down and orders two Irish car bombs.  
  
Someone selects a Nickelback song.  
  
Brad smirks. He pours the dregs of the beer into his glass, still giving it a perfect head.  
  
Nate is impressed.  
  
Brad says something that sounds suspiciously like, “Kids these days,” as he swallows a mouthful of lager. He presses a stray drop into the corner of his mouth and sucks the taste off his thumb.  
  
“So, do you think we’re gonna invade Iraq?”  
  
Brad raises an eyebrow. “I think, sir, we’ll do whatever we feel we need to do.”  
  
Nate nods. He’s on his way to being well and truly drunk.

  
-

  
The bar fills with a bachelorette party, grunts not on duty and girls ready to make questionable decisions. Nate threads his way back to their booth now positioned as prime real estate.  
  
Brad eyes the two glasses Nate sets in front of him. “What is it?”  
  
“Drink.” Nate tosses his own back in two gulps. He starts coughing at the burn immediately. It really should be sipped.  
  
Brad sniffs one of his glasses and then follows Nate’s lead.

 

-

  
Springsteen is playing for the fourth time since they got here. Brad’s lips stumble over the verses, mumbling into his fresh… Nate has no idea what he’s drinking.  
  
He suspects Brad will be to blame when “Born To Run” loops through his hangover-induced headache tomorrow.  
  
Brad pours another round out of their fifth (maybe sixth, Nate’s lost count) pitcher. A girl whose shirt doesn’t meet the top of her low-slung pants falls off her shoe and into their table. Brad spills some of the beer. It’s the first time he’s done that all evening.  
  
“S-sorry.” She straightens up again. Nate knows she’s wearing a black cotton thong. She glances over her shoulder. She peels off from her group of friends, biting her bottom lip. She has bleached blonde hair and brown eyes. “Mind if I join you?”  
  
Brad folds himself further into the corner of the booth.  
  
Foreigner pours out of the jukebox. “I love this song,” she says, sliding in.

  
-

  
Nate pushes another eight quarters in the slot. He flips through the CD lists, stopping at a familiar blue-tinged cover. He taps 4504 in and continues scrolling.

  
-

  
She’s still there when Nate returns with three shots.  
  
“I don’t think I caught your name,” he says when he’s sitting across from her. He’s leaning over the table.  
  
“Nathalie.” She downs the alcohol and flips her shot glass over. “With an ‘h.’”

  
-

  
The first “Je t’adore” drowns out the growing white noise in Nate’s head. His lips quirk at Jay-Z professing his love for all the “Girls Girls Girls” as he takes another drink. His cheeks are stained pink, and his eyes are glassy and unfocused. He feels _good_.  
  
“Rap, sir? Really?”  
  
He should’ve known Brad wouldn’t miss that. “It’s not country. Thought you’d appreciate that.”  
  
“Point, sir.”  
  
Nathalie-wth-an-h presses further into Brad’s side. “Why do you call him ‘sir?’”

  
-

  
Nathalie-with-an-h stumbles again when she gets back from wherever girls disappear to when they’re bored with the conversation. “Wanna get out of here?”  
  
Nate gives her points for directness.  
  
Brad watches him for a moment, letting it stretch to the point of uncomfortable before rolling a shrug. He drains the last of his beer.  
  
Nate doesn’t watch them leave, doesn’t watch as Brad palms one of her hips and hooks two fingers in one of her belt loops, doesn’t watch as everyone else does.

  
-

  
Nate lies on the hood of his Saab. The stars are spinning faster than the Earth is rotating.  
  
Nate thought he stopped doing stupid shit like this spring semester of his junior year. Turns out he was wrong. He’s been wrong a lot lately.  
  
A taxi pulls into the parking lot. Nate pushes himself off his car as three girls who can’t be legal spill out of the back seat. They’re giggling.  
  
Nate gives the driver the address to the house he shares with VJ.  
  
Brad’s bike is still in its parking space.

  
-

  
Nate fumbles his keys twice before he gets the door open. The house is dark. He’s alone for what’s left of the night.  
  
Nate pushes his jeans down his thighs inside his bedroom. He falls onto his bed, half-hard.  
  
Nate grinds the heel of his hand into his cock. It doesn’t change anything.  
  
The porn is buried in the back of his nightstand. He doesn’t feel like looking for it.  
  
Nate shoves his briefs down. He licks a sloppy stripe up his palm and tugs twice. He thinks about bleached blonde hair and perky tits. He thinks of blue eyes daring him to say what he wants.

  
-

  
Nate passes out before he comes.

  
-


End file.
